


so long to the american dream

by Skyuni123



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Author's Favorite, Bisexuality, Eventual Romance, Historical References, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Privilege, Professional Fatigue, Slow Build, Wealth, questionable life choices, two assholes with drinking problems fall in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:25:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: Phillip Carlyle is dragged unceremoniously from his upper class life when he meets P.T Barnum.It's an interesting start, really.





	1. Bowery

Phillip Carlyle was born into wealth and privilege and loathed every second of it. 

While he supposed he should be thankful that he was not the lone son of a poverty-stricken tailor; born rife with disease, or made to work the fields everyday, wealth, privilege and the ‘American Dream’ held very little for him.

 

How hypocritical was the term ‘the American Dream’ if many weren’t living it? 

 

He stepped from his parents’ path for him - did not attempt to become a lawyer or a physician, and instead found playwriting. 

Through plays, he could make the masses  _ see. _

 

It didn’t seem to work, though. Within days of his adaptation of William Shakespeare’s  _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream  _ hitting the stage, he was struck from the theatre and very earnestly warned against doing such things ever again.

 

Too _ perverse. _

Too _ violent. _

Too _ queer. _

 

He cut from the Shakespeare, took up his pencil, and wrote his own. Satire, delicately layered within romantic tragedies and historical plays. Commentaries on the government, on slavery, on his own abnormal feelings, he wrote it all.

But no-one seemed to read into it. The audiences were more concerned by their image, and the prestige of the event, to take much notice.

 

_ “Take notice, that saucebox Carlyle has written another play!” _

 

He stepped away from it all, found solace in the bottom of bottles of heavy wet. It wasn’t a solution, was about as far from it as one could find, but it was something, at least.

  
  


That was when he met Barnum.

He was beginning to feel fatigued, and he was only weeks into his thirtieth year. It was an impossible drain on his life, but what could he do? He’d tried opiates, alcohol, prostitutes, but nothing was working.

 

How could he create new worlds if his own was so (comparatively) bleak?

 

A Friday. Six-thirty. It was mere moments after  _ The Servant’s Consort  _ had started, and he was perched on a low wall outside the Bowery, taking a not-so-disguised swig from his flask. 

He could have watched the play - his box was always reserved for him - but he couldn’t face it.  _ Consort  _ wasn’t one of his best, it’d be torn apart by the reviewers in the next paper, and he feared that he’d hid the allegory too deep. It was a real hugger-mugger of a piece and probably shouldn’t have been staged.

 

“Drowning your sorrows?” 

 

He didn’t bother to look up from the flask, content to just sit and stare down at the murky depths of the malt whiskey. “If you’re looking for a ticket, you’re too late. The show’s already begun.”

“Not really my business.” The stranger perched on the wall next to him. “Can’t stand most plays. You’re Phillip Carlyle, aren’t you?”

 

“The one and only.” Dryly. He looked up, deciding to face the stranger head-on. It wouldn’t do to get mugged again. 

He was of average height, violently brunette, and pale. If it wasn’t for the fire in his eyes, he’d resemble any other man of wealth in New York City.

 

Phillip recognised him. How could he not? “You’re-”

“P.T. Barnum. You might have heard of me.” He offered a hand, grinning widely. It was a good look on him. Impulsive. Passionate. 

“I try to avoid the review pages, but you’ve apparently made quite an impression.” He replied, and shook his hand. “Phillip Carlyle. Author of the play you’ve just missed.”

“It can’t be too good if you’re sitting out here.” 

“Oh, it really isn’t.  _ The Servant's Consort  _ is far from being a play I admire, but I was working to a deadline.” He didn’t add the “and out of ideas” that the sentence deserved, but it hung in the air between them. 

 

Barnum stood from his perch and stretched. “Good. Come on, then. I’ve got a proposal for you that I think you’ll like.” 

 

He had a  _ proposal  _ for him? The whole scenario was beginning to smell like a con. However, he had nothing to do for a couple of hours and following Barnum through the back streets of New York sounded a fair sight more interesting than drinking alone in the cold. 

“Fine. Lead the way.” 


	2. Ale House

It was an ale house that Phillip knew well, which was a relief. 

While he didn’t believe that Barnum was going to lead him down a dark alley and murder him, the man’s strange demeanor and esoteric reputation did belie a need for some hesitance.

He wasn’t going to walk into anything foolish without at least some consideration. 

 

Barnum gestured for him to sit and the bartender poured their drinks. Single malt. 

 

“You’re a man after my own heart, Barnum.” Phillip unwound the scarf from his neck, hung it on the hatstand and took a seat next to him.

“I try.” 

 

Phillip sampled the whiskey before speaking. It was oaky, tinged with honey, and burned as it went down. Expensive. Though the price and flavour of whiskey mattered not to him nowadays, it did make an interesting change.  “So, what do you need from me? I’ve read the papers, you’re drawing better crowds than I am.” 

“I want you to come and work with me.” 

Phillip snorted. He couldn’t help it. “With respect, Mr Barnum, I’m not quite sure how I can help you. My clientele don’t tend to dally with the… arcane.” 

 

“Snobs!” Barnum exclaimed, and downed his glass in one. “I have the lower classes, of course, the tradesmen, the laborers, but I can’t draw the snobs. You seem to have that group eating out of your hand, and I want to know how you do it.”

“What if the… ‘snobs’, as you so articulately put it, don’t want your particular brand of fragmentary esoterica?”

“‘Fragmentary esoterica’?” Said he, “Now, I like that. Eloquent. Tell me, does your tongue have such skill in other matters?”

 

The bartender looked between them, shrugged, and kept on sweeping. 

 

Could it be? No. Surely not. It was time for him to leave. This… partnership. This deal. It wouldn’t do.  He drained his glass and stood. “Forgive me, Mr Barnum, I don’t think that our lifestyles would work well together. I’ll take my leave.” 

He reached for his scarf, ready to depart this strange little ale house and the even stranger conversation within, but Barnum’s next words stopped him.

 

“Are you happy?”

“Happy’s hard to quantify.”

“Don’t be evasive. It’s a simple question.”

 

He didn’t answer, and instead turned back to the older man. “Tell me. If we were going to do this, and keep in mind, I said  _ if,  _ what would I get out of it?” As much as he couldn’t stand the theatre at times, it  _ was  _ his home. If he ran off with the circus he’d likely lose his reputation, his friends, any relationship he still had with his parents - it’d change his life dramatically.

“A life away from the conventional. Trade in that drudgery for something colourful. A world you could actually  _ live  _ in, rather than writing plays for people who don’t realise what you’re trying to say.” 

And with that sparkle in his eyes, Phillip was sure that the man believed wholeheartedly in whatever point he was trying to make. It almost made him want to believe. “Poetic. What makes you think that I even want to get away from the mainstream? Joining your circus could ruin me.” 

“I can see it in your eyes.” Barnum said, earnestly. “Live a little. Take a risk. Isn’t there something you’re  _ aching  _ for?”

 

It was like he  _ knew.  _ But he couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly. No man would know a desire like that and not cast himself to the dogs.

 

“I guess I’ll leave it up to you.” Barnum shrugged, and sat back in his chair. The bartender poured him a drink without even asking.

 

He should have run. He really should have run. 

But the promise of something better, something that would return joy to his life, stopped him. He leaned on the bar, eyed P.T with a practised gaze. “It would cost me greatly. What percentage of the show would I be taking?”

 

“Seven. A partnership, and more friends than you could ever need.”

Seven? That wasn’t a partnership, it was daylight robbery. “Eighteen.”

 

They traded percentages for a few moments, bickering lightly in the whiskey-tinged air. 

 

“Ten.” Phillip finally said. It was his last offer. Anything lower would ruin him, ‘joy and partnerships’ be damned.

Barnum grinned and something in it made Phillip’s cheeks heat embarrassingly. “I could do ten.”

“Well, Mr Barnum, you’ve got yourself a deal.” 

 

And then they got rip-roaringly drunk.

* * *

 

 

Phillip was fairly sure he had never been that drunk before in his life, and he’d basically taken up alcoholism as a semi-professional hobby as of late. Barnum wasn’t that much better, but at least he could walk in a straight line.

“I have to… go to the gathering. After the show.” Phillip slurred. “I need to... meet... people.”

 

“You’re not going to meet anyone in that state.” The bartender said. He was still there, still feeding them drinks (probably to their own detriment at that point). “It’s eleven, anyway. Your show will be over. Go home. Sleep it off.” 

 

“Yes.” Barnum thumped him on the back with no small amount of gusto. “Go home. And then come back tomorrow. To the circus. You can meet everyone.”

In his drunkenness he’d almost forgotten that they’d made a deal. He’d also forgotten- “Oh, God.” 

“Something wrong?” Barnham’s hand was still on his back. Why was Barnham’s hand still on his back?

 

Dammit. This had been a bad idea, after all. And he’d missed the ending of his show? The papers would be all over  _ that  _ in the morning. “My apartment’s...  forty minutes from the Bowery. Probably an hour from… here.  _ And  _ I’m drunk.” 

He’d probably get mugged in the street before he’d even travelled a mile. Even the hansoms stopped at ten.

 

“No problem.” Barnum thumped him on the back again. At that point, it was actually beginning to hurt. “I live just around the corner and my divan’s  _ divine.  _ Or, so I’ve been told.”

 

Hell, what did he have to lose?

 

He got three steps into Barnum’s apartment before he collapsed face-first onto the divan, fully-clothed. It had been a strange, tiring day.

At least he wouldn't have to ask for directions in the morning. 


	3. Apartment

The first thing Phillip noticed when he woke up was how wooden Barnum's apartment it was. It wasn’t the apartment of a wealthy man, but instead held the scars of poverty. Hell, he was even fairly sure that there were holes in the roof!

The second thing he noticed was the  _ smell.  _ Somebody was cooking eggs.

The third thing he noticed was his headache. God. He’d not had a hangover so bad in years.

 

He levered himself upright, trying hard not to jostle his head more than absolutely necessary. The sight that beheld him was almost extraordinary. P.T Barnum, standing at the range in his kitchen, making eggs. The sweet morning light coming through the window cast him into silhouette, but Phillip could still see the wide grin on his face.

Hell, he was even humming!

 

It almost felt like a dream.

Or a nightmare.

 

Phillip wasn’t able to decide which. 

  
  


The room was well-lit by the sun, but small. He squinted, trying to minimise some of the light coming into his eyes, and spotted a picture frame on the wall in the corner.

If he really tried he could just make out the people in it. Barnum, a beautiful blonde woman, and two young girls.

He supposed it was Barnum’s family. The revelation didn’t surprise him, but it did disappoint him for reasons he couldn’t quite place.

 

His head throbbed. Not the time. 

 

“Morning!” Barnum called, sounding far more chipper than it really should have been possible to be. “Want any?”

“Please.” He managed a weak thumbs up before he collapsed back into the divan. 

 

Barnum came over with two plates, gestured at the end of the divan and said, “Shift.”

“Huh?”

“Legs.”

“Oh yeah.” He moved his feet out of the way and sat up again, not liking how nausea rolled in his stomach as he did. Barnum passed him a plate. “Thanks.”

 

They ate mostly in silence. Phillip was mainly just trying to keep everything down but eventually did find that the meal made him feel a bit better. He couldn’t help but wonder, though… “How are you so…  _ alive?” _

Barnum quirked an eyebrow at him. “Alive?”   


Phillip rubbed his eyes. (They also ached.) “Alive - uh, this morning. How do you look so good? We drank  _ a lot.  _ I think. I can’t even really remember.” 

Barnum shrugged. “Practise.” 

“I’ve had practise. Years of it. Still comes down to a hangover in the end.”

 

Barnum didn’t answer. They sat together there for a moment, two men joined only by a desire for the unknown and the love of too much whiskey. 

 

“That’s my wife and children.” Barnum gestured at the portrait with a casual wave of his arm. “She left me. Went home to her father and took the kids. Fair enough, too.”

To be told something of such  _ magnitude,  _ after hardly knowing the man for a day? Phillip didn’t quite know what answer would satisfy, what he could even say to make some sort of impact. “I don’t-”

“You don’t need to give me your sympathies. I became too amassed in my work, neglected her and the children, and was only doing things to spite her father. My work became my life, my sole reason for existing. It was well within her rights to leave.” Barnum sat back into the divan and sighed heavily. “Of course I still care for her, because how could I not? But I get to see the children, and we might fix things eventually. That’s enough.”

 

He lapsed into silence and stared off into space.

 

It became blatantly clear to Phillip that Barnum hadn’t had anyone to talk to about this sort of thing for a very long time. He wasn’t going to become that person. He couldn’t become that person. This was a professional partnership, only. Last night had been a lapse of judgment. It wasn’t going to happen again. 

 

Words coming almost unbidden, he said, “But if you love her, and if she loves you, surely she could be persuaded to understand? You could fix things.”

“That’s the trouble.” Barnum said, and turned to him. “I think she does understand.”

 

It looked very much to Phillip that he was on the verge of tears. The whole conversation seemed layered in verse, like they were speaking in metaphor about something else entirely. 

 

Barnum let out a heavy sigh, clapped Phillip on the back again and said, “Circus?” 

“Circus.” Phillip nodded. He’d never been happier to end a conversation in his life. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warnings for period-typical language, I guess?

The circus was wondrous.

He’d never seen such spectacle, such  _ magic,  _ in his life, and he’d been working in the theater since he was fifteen. Barnum’s creations shone with a glow he’d never been able to catch. Yes, they were oddities, but they were so _alive_ . 

 

“This is… good.” And although he was a wordsmith, and most definitely should have been able to articulate his thoughts, he just couldn’t. The circus was breathtaking.

 

“Good.” Barnum clapped him on the back and gestured up towards the ceiling. “Look up there and tell me you’re not impressed.”

 

And from the sky, as if by magic, fell two performers clad in purple. Both dark-skinned, lithe and gorgeous, they twisted and flew past each other on the wings of angels. She was beautiful, him handsome, and Philip’s mouth went a little dry at the thought.

He locked eyes with the woman as she flew towards him. Her gaze wasn’t harsh, just curious. But then she swung away again, fully immersed in her act, and the spell was broken.

 

“I must admit,” He whispered to Barnum, unable to take his eyes off the performers above. “I am impressed.”

 

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Barnum laid a hand on his shoulder and startled him out of his daze. “The rehearsal is nearly over. Follow me. You need to meet everyone.”

  
  


There was Lettie, a voluptuous bearded lady, whose singing voice surpassed any performer he’d seen on a professional stage, a pair of Siamese twins, an Irish giant (who was very tall, but unmistakably not Irish), the ‘Dog Boy’ who had hair all over his face, and Charles, a small man who played a General on stage, as well as many, many more.

It was overwhelming. It was  _ amazing.  _

 

He said as much to Barnum, who just laughed and said, “You’ve not seen anything yet.”

 

There was  _ more? _

 

Barnum pulled him outside to where the two trapeze artists were stretching and gathering up their ropes.

He was tall, she shorter, but with ostentatious pink hair. They were both incredibly beautiful, even away from the glossy veneer of the circus lights.

 

“W.D, Anne, this is Phillip Carlyle. My… partner. He’ll be joining us.”

 

Phillip offered Anne a hand, pasting on a smile, though he was still rather taken aback. She was even more striking close up, as was her partner. “Phillip, please.”

 

Instead of taking it, she just eyed him with a gaze so powerful that it nearly cowed him. “And what is your act, Mr Carlyle?”

 

“I… uh… don’t have an act.” 

 

She looked him up and down for a moment. The intensity in her eyes almost made him take a step back. “Everyone has an act.” 

 

Everyone has an  _ act?  _ Could she… know? Was he that transparent? He worried his lower lip under the scrutiny of her gaze for a moment. “Maybe so.”

 

She raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s a pleasure, Mr Carlyle.” She said, and strode on past him without another word.

 

W.D trailed along behind her, with nothing more than a, “Mr Carlyle,” in his direction as he went. He was very tall, but held himself with as much poise as his partner, perhaps even more so. 

 

Phillip let out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding, having been oddly staggered by the presence of the two artists. God, he needed to be more careful.

 

“Don’t worry.” Barnum chortled in his ear, startling him. In all honesty, he’d almost forgotten he was there. “It happens to everyone. Some people are so taken by them that they forget that they’re supposed to hate them.”

 

And that was the rub, wasn’t it?

Even though Phillip had issues of his own, he would never walk down the street and be openly harassed for what he looked like, the color of his skin or how he held himself. He supposed that one day, in the future, things would change, but he couldn’t see it happening in his lifetime.

 

It was abhorrent.

It was life.

 

But that was what the circus seemed to be. A refuge, for those that society had tried to cast away. If it was all it seemed to be, at least, it almost made him  _ hope. _

 

“Are you ready to get to work?” Barnum asked, snapping him out of his reverie.

 

“Of course.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This got weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose???? i could tag this for bondage now?????????????????
> 
> has a slight flavour of non-sexual bdsm. i don't know.

Barnum was a madman.

A brilliant madman, but a madman nonetheless.

 

It was as though he was everywhere. One moment he was teaching choreography to the dancers, the next he was in the office, sorting out plans for business expansion.

It was mad, but it was also enviable.

 

Barnum was doing what he loved, not giving any sort of regard to what people thought of him, and he seemed to find solace in that. Despite his ruin of a marriage, he could find peace in the circus.

Phillip had no such ability. His family - wealthy, prestigious, with all that New York could want - practically disowned him when they discovered his contract with the circus. Lord forgive him if they ever found out who he was actually working with.

Try as he might, he couldn’t quite shake their influence over him.

  


The circus was going from strength to strength. Even some of Phillip’s old partners had visited.

Most of them were impressed.

To a point.

 

He wasn’t sure if he was ever going to get the ‘snobs’ (as Barnum so _politely_ put it) to truly embrace the magic of the circus, but in truth, he didn’t actually mind.

The circus was part of him now, and that was all that mattered.

  


Late one evening, Phillip was sitting on a box backstage, loosely drumming out the beat of one of their new songs on the edge of the wood. Barnum pushed past the curtain from the stage, looking tired but not completely worn-out. He was holding a spirited conversation with Daniel, the ‘Dog Boy’ (as the posters littered about the town so _affectionately_ put it) in a language Phillip didn’t recognise.

It was clear that Barnum knew the language well, because he didn’t stumble, didn’t even pause for thought. Strange. What else didn’t they all know about their benefactor?

 

“He’s speaking Portuguese.” Anne startled him, so much so that he nearly fell from the box. "May I sit, Mr Carlyle?”

She gestured hesitantly at the space next to him, almost looking like she would run away if he said anything too harsh. The thought was troubling.

 

“Yes, of course! And please, call me Phillip. We’ve been working together too long for surnames.” Nearly coming up to two months, in fact.

 

“Thank you… Phillip.” She said, softly, and settled down on the box next to him. “Daniel is from Brazil, where some people speak Portuguese, and oddly enough, that is one of the languages Mr Barnum seems to know.”

 

“Do you know it?”

 

“I know enough Spanish to live on, and although the two are sometimes similar, that isn’t Spanish.”

 

“You know Spanish?” What a wonder. He’d learned some Latin, obviously, and his mother spoke Irish at home, but neither of those languages were actually used to converse in polite society. “It seems that we’re quite a multilingual bunch.”

 

She raised an eyebrow at him, and said, “Phillip, there’s a reason we’re society’s outcasts here, and it’s not always because of physical deformities.”

 

“Ah. Yes.” His face felt hot all of a sudden. “Sorry.”

 

“I’m used to it,” said she, “But try to work with us, yes? Mr Barnum is not exactly a patron saint of virtue himself, but he does treat us all the same.”

 

He wasn’t aware that he hadn’t been - but he supposed that all these new people and new experiences were a bit of a shock to him. He wasn’t at all used to seeing people like this.

He supposed he was going to have to become so.

 

“Do you speak anything other than English, Phillip?” Her next question, so gentle and unprompted, snapped him from his thoughts.

 

“My mother speaks Irish, so I know some from her. Other than that, no.”

 

“Well, you work with us now, so you’ve got your chance.” She slid off the box and waved goodbye to him. “I’m going home. It’s late. See you tomorrow.”

She was all grace as she walked away, and he was sure that she knew it.

God above, that woman made him flustered. She made him want to be better, made him feel like he could take all of his worthless plotlines and weak stories and channel them into something worthwhile. Something that could help them all.

 

He looked at his watch, only just realising that it was quite late. He’d have to be back at the circus early the next morning - it’d make sense if he headed on home.

He laced on his boots, collected the music scattered around him - it’d be easy to work on that at home at least, with his piano - and was all set to leave when Barnum broke off his conversation with Daniel and yelled, “Phillip, are you heading home?”

 

“I was intending to, yes?”

 

“Would you mind staying for longer?”

 

Would he _mind?_

Well, he was tired and desperately wanted to go home, put his feet up and down some whiskey, but Barnum seemed to want him around. He couldn’t pass that up. The man’s presence was pleasing, even if there was nothing more in it.

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

“Excellent.” Barnum said something else to Daniel in Portuguese, presumably a farewell (though Phillip couldn’t be quite sure), and the younger man wandered off in the direction of the wardrobe room.

 

Phillip slid off the box. “How many languages do you even speak, anyway?”

 

“Five, I suppose.” Barnum jogged over to him, grinning wildly.

 

“Five?!” Phillip didn’t even know any people from wealthy backgrounds who spoke that many. “How on earth-”

 

“Barring English, they’re all rusty. I haven’t had much chance to speak them as of late.”

 

 _Ridiculous._ He’d been speaking Portuguese with all the grace of a native speaker. “Still, five?”

 

“English, Dutch, Portuguese, Chinese and Irish.”

 

The way that Barnum was grinning at him made Phillip’s heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest. He wasn’t going to think about it. “You speak Irish too?”

 

The brief look of surprise that passed over Barnum’s face at the reply was fleeting. “Yes! Aon scéal?”

 

“Diabhal an scéal.” It wasn’t exactly easy remembering the language - he’d not lived with his parents for quite some time - but he just about managed.

 

And then Barnum was off chattering up a storm in Irish. Phillip tried his best to follow along but he was lost almost immediately, and he only managed to catch the odd word and phrase along the way.

 

“You’ve surpassed my knowledge.” He said, after a moment, “But I think you were asking how I know Irish?’

 

Barnum stopped. “That was about the jist of it, yes. Shall we walk? You can tell me about your sordid Irish past as we do.”

 

“Catholicism is hardly sordid and -”

 

Barnum showed him the new ropes system as they talked. It didn’t seemed too complex, mostly relied on gravity and stagehands, but it was clearly a work of some genius.

He told the older man about his family’s Catholic heritage and their overbearing present-day reliance on it. In return, he learned that Barnum had picked up all of his languages from working on the Railroad in his youth, aside from Irish, which he’d learned from his family as well.

 

“Our families might have a shared past, young Phillip.” Barnum said, and clasped him gently on the shoulder. “Now, would you like to give this a go?” He pointed at the twisted length of fabric hanging from the ceiling with his free hand.

 

He wasn’t exactly enamored with the idea. “We are not so far apart in age, Barnum, don’t patronise me. Why would I be using the ropes?”

The idea of being so high off the ground wasn’t one that he was exactly fond of.

 

“I have been your business partner for two months and you’re still referring to me by my family name? I am not your better, Phineas is fine.”

 

“Stop being evasive, _Phineas,_ why would I be using the ropes?” He was a composer and a writer first and foremost. Dancing was fine. Being high up in the air without any sort of support was… _not._

 

“Don’t you want to learn how to fly?”

 

Well, if he put it like that… “Not particularly, since you’re not telling me why I should be learning.”

 

Barnum pouted. It was oddly petulant. “You’re ruining my fun.”

 

“More accurately, I think you mean ‘protecting your investments’?”

 

“Perhaps.” Barnum rolled his eyes. “Look, I’ve been thinking. You and Anne could do a duet up there.”

 

“Me… and Anne? I’m not trained, why can’t she and her brother do it?”

 

“Because it’d be more of a romantic duet, Phillip.” Barnum said, matter-of-factly, as though it was blatantly obvious. “Give the audience something to root for. We could have a full _story_ , running through the entire show.”

Audiences _did_ like love stories. He’d built most of his career off the back of them. However, there was one other issue. “...I’m white. She is… not. The critics won’t like that. Hell, we’re getting complaints for having women perform in the first place. We’re a taboo show already, should we really be making it worse?”

 

“Fuck the critics!” Barnum said, shocking Phillip. The swearing was out of character, even for him. “Sooner or later, the world’s gotta realise. You like Anne, yes?”

 

“I… get on well with her.” He replied, shiftily. In truth, he wasn’t even sure what his feelings were. His presence at the circus, his presence as Barnum’s collaborator, his presence within this group of wildcards and outcasts… It was causing him to rethink many things.

 

“Of course you do. She’s beautiful and intelligent.” Barnum barrelled on. “We can make a love story that the audience will love, even if they don’t think they should. It’s subversive, right?”

 

“I suppose.” In truth, it had been something he’d tried in one of his plays, many years ago. It hadn’t gone down well.

But maybe the audience was learning. Maybe times were changing. Was it really his place to step in the way of progress? It couldn’t hurt the show _that_ much.

 

“Good.” Barnum nodded. “Come on, then.” He gestured again at the length of fabric.

 

Phillip’s eyes were drawn more to the sheer height of the ceiling. God above, how had he not noticed that the place was so high before?

“Is there any way I can get out of this?”

 

“Do you have a note from your physician saying that you’re grievously ill?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then no.”

 

Phillip sighed. That was the circus, though. ‘Learning on the job’ had never been more accurate.

 

Barnum showed him how to wrap the silk around his arms and torso in such a way that would stop him falling even if he did let go. It didn’t do much to allay his fears, but he supposed it was better than nothing.

It was oddly intimate, this process. In another place, he guessed it could be used for certain other forms of gratification. He found that he wasn’t actually too upset with the idea. It made his face hot, and anxiety skitter under the surface of his skin. 

 

“Ready?”

 

“Yes.” He wasn’t.

 

Barnum tugged on the silk just above his wrists, clearly testing the weight a final time. He then stepped back, looked Phillip dead in the eye and said, “Don’t go panicking on me now, okay?”

“I will try… very hard not to lose my mind.” Phillip replied dryly, though he wasn’t making any promises.

“Good.” Barnum squeezed him on the shoulder again, and then backed off towards the pulley ropes. “I have faith in you, remember that.”

 

The thought didn’t help. Nausea rolled in his stomach, and he tried very hard to keep it down. Humans weren’t meant to fly.

 

“3, 2-” Barnum pulled on the rope before yelling ‘one’.

 

There was an abrupt tug and he was shot up into the air. The pain in his arms was nearly instantaneous. He strained, fighting the desire to let go, fighting his own body’s want to fall back to the ground. It was fine. It was fine. It was _fine._ “Fucking _hell_ , Barnum, warn a man!” His yell was at least an octave higher than he was expecting, and he closed his eyes, fighting hard to calm his racing heart.

 

“Sorry.” Barnum didn’t sound sorry at all, and he was sure that if he opened his eyes, he’d be grinning. “You’re up in the air now. How does it feel?”

 

“I would… rather not be up here.” He hadn’t opened his eyes yet. He didn’t want to see.

 

“Open your eyes, Phillip.”

 

“Do I have to.”

 

“I’m not letting you down until you do.”

 

His muscles screamed. He wasn’t unfit by any means, but this pulled at muscles in ways that felt unfamiliar. He gasped, a deranged whimper spluttering out of him. “Let me down.”

 

“Open your eyes.”

 

“Please.”

 

“Open your eyes, Phillip.”

 

He panted, heart still throbbing in his ears. He needed to get down. This wasn’t right at all.

 

“You’re doing a lot better than my first time. Open your eyes.”

  


Phillip opened his eyes.

 

The sight below was both a wonder and a nightmare.

To see the ring from so high up - he didn’t know how Anne and W.D could do it. It was beautiful, wonderful, and utterly, utterly terrifying.

“Dammit.” He hissed, as another spike of pain ripped through his shoulders. His whole body felt like it was on fire. “Joke’s over now, Barnum, let me down.”

 

“Just take a moment.” Barnum called, from somewhere down below. He couldn’t see him, no matter which direction he craned his neck and the thought was terrifying. What if he just left him there? “I know it hurts, but let it hurt.”

 

He grunted. “You’re… really not… helping.”

 

“I’ve seen your calisthenics, Phillip, you’re perfectly capable of holding yourself up for longer than this. It hurts, right, but sometimes you need to feel that pain. It’s good to hurt sometimes. Makes you more human.”

 

“Are you saying I should use the pain to cope?” He hissed, hands sweaty and shaky.

 

“Crawling inside a bottle isn’t the only option.”

 

“Says you.” Phillip spat, suddenly insatiably angry.

 

Barnum seemed to completely ignore that remark. “It’s not about the pain. It’s about letting go of it. When I let you down it’ll feel as good as any other release.”

 

“Are you really sure about that? Really?”

 

“Yes. I’m going to let you down now.”

 

And then, blessedly, he was let down onto the floor. He crumpled onto his knees in the sand, his arms dropping useless to his sides. The relief was all-encompassing. He finally felt like he could breathe again. The absence of pain was so lovely that he could cry.

He shook the silk away from his wrists, leaving dark red welts in its wake. “You are such an  _ass_ , Barnum.” He said, suddenly feeling awfully tired. He wasn’t mad, exactly, because he supposed that there _was_ a lesson in what he’d just done, but God, did it hurt. “Is there even going to be a duet?”

 

“Yes.” Barnum knelt in front of him and held a cup of water to his lips. “Drink.”

 

He drank. The water was cool and refreshing, and seemed to take the edge off the burn in his head. “That was still wholeheartedly rude of you.”

 

“A little pain doesn’t matter when better things happen afterwards.” Barnum fetched a damp cloth and laid it down on the welts on his arms.

 

The abrupt _cold_ against the tight hot warmth of the welts was dizzying, and made his head swim. He hissed sharply through his teeth, but he didn’t want it to stop.

The pain had lessened slightly. It was more of a dull throbbing, nothing like the sharpness of before. It didn’t feel bad, exactly, just odd. His head felt airy, empty, like drawing any thought would take too much effort. He yawned, and dropped his head to his chest.

Too much effort to find his watch and check the time. Too much.

 

“You did well.” A cool hand, rough with callouses, cupped his cheek. He couldn’t help but lean into it, feel the relief wash over his skin. “You were up there for just over ten minutes. Far better than my first time.”

 

“Ten minutes?” It had felt like seconds.

 

“And I bet you didn’t worry about falling once.”

 

“...Bit hard when I felt like my arms were going to be pulled out of their sockets.”

 

“Still, the point is that you did it. You survived. Going up there again is going to be simple after this.”

 

“Mmmm.” His eyes were drifting closed. God, he swore he’d not been so tired when they’d began. Everything felt loose and boneless, like he was stuck in a dream.

 

“I’m proud of you, Phillip.”

 

With a last ditch effort, he managed to raise his head up and look Barnum in the eyes. There was sincerity there, and something else he couldn’t quite read. If they were any closer they could -

But then he blinked, eyelids drooping again, and the moment was lost. “I… am so damn tired.”

 

“I’m not surprised.” Barnum patted him on the cheek, and then dropped his hand. “Come on, I’ll pay for your hansom home. It’s the least I can do after being ‘such an ass’.”

 

“You better.”

  


He slept a full ten hours that night, without even drinking. It made a change.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all have no goddamn inkling to how long i spent on the ngram viewer today, trying to find historically appropriate words. 
> 
> also, in regard to the languages thing, I am totally aware that 'Irish' and 'Chinese' are Gaelic and Mandarin, but historically, they likely didn't called 'em that. 
> 
> why this chapter? because barnum is a dick but he's also tryna make people better ya feel.


	6. Chapter 6

The next day at the circus was an odd one.

 

Barnum was his usual self, of course, utterly magnificent, more energetic than his years belied and thoroughly  _ vibrant, _ but he kept on looking at Philip like there was something he couldn’t quite figure out about him. 

 

It made him itch.

 

Did he  _ know?  _ Would he  _ care?  _

 

Despite all of the circus’ problems - and there were  _ many -  _ the thought of being cast out terrified him. He loved the work they were doing, loved the sheer creation that seemed to flow from the performers out onto the stage, and he couldn’t imagine going back to playwriting after all of it.

 

Surely Barnum, of all people, wouldn’t care. He’d made a  _ circus  _ of outcasts. He’d taken people who’d never find a place anywhere else in society and given them a home. 

 

And yes, some of that was for monetary benefit, but he’d still made an effort to treat outcasts like people when no-one else would.

 

_ Surely _ , he wouldn’t cast him out.

 

Surely. 

 

And what was with Barnum’s demeanor anyway? 

 

His effervescence with both men and women… his charm… it was almost like the man himself had a better understanding of Phillip’s feelings than anyone else could.

 

But he couldn’t possibly. It was too Grecian, too political, to even give himself that hope.

 

Phillip’s arms and torso  _ ached.  _ It wasn’t a bad ache, like he’d pushed something too far, but a good one, like the day after he’d done a good set of calisthenics, or mastered one of their dances.

 

The welts had turned into bruises. It stung to put pressure on them, but it wasn’t a bad sting.

 

It was oddly reminiscent of Barnum. All pressure and pain, but no finality. 

At least he didn’t seem to be overtly evil. 

  
  


Phillip was going over the accounts near the end of the day. It had been a long day, tiring, and he was struggling to keep his eyes open, but the accounts were an important job. He often got help from some of the other members of the circus, but Barnum was utterly useless at them. Despite his talents on the stage, he always tried to spend more than they had.

 

“You should come out for a drink with me.” 

 

He was startled by Barnum’s words, but he didn’t make his reaction obvious. That would add more fuel to the fire. “You were the one preaching against alcohol last night. What changed?”

 

“Yeah…” Barnum pushed himself up onto the table opposite him and looked vaguely sheepish. “That might have been a bit too much too fast. Sorry.”

 

“You think so? I don’t know what point you were trying to make, but I am bruised.” Phillip unhooked one of his cufflinks and rolled his left sleeve up. The bruises weren’t exceeding thorough, but they were still prominent.

 

“The point I was trying to make is that there are other ways of dealing with your vices that don’t involve drinking them away. I know that for a fact.” He gestured at the bruises. “May I?”

 

“Yes…” Phillip said slowly, suddenly sure he was about to pitch himself down a rabbit hole. It felt like a bad idea, but he was powerless to resist. 

 

Was it a seduction? Was it how it was… done?

 

It wasn’t as though Phillip had any experience in… that area… of things. 

 

Barnum took his wrist and ran a thumb over one of the bruises. He pressed in sharply over one of the deepest ones and Phillip hissed through his teeth, sparks arcing up through his forearm and into his shoulders. His shirt felt hot and tight as it brushed against his skin underneath.

 

It wasn’t a bad pain.

 

It wasn’t at all.

 

How did Barnum  _ do it?  _ How could he find the balance between pleasure and pain? It was in that moment that he realised that he liked the feeling. He wanted more of it.

 

Self-flagellation at its finest. What had he become?

 

Barnum turned his hand over, casually, almost thoughtfully, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, before dropping Phillip’s hand back down. Casually, as though nothing at all had happened between them, he hauled himself back onto the table and said, “Shall we get that drink now?”

 

Phillip blinked. And then blinked again. “Sorry?” He croaked, utterly baffled. “You have a wife. And children.”

 

“Did I really misread this situation?” Barnum didn’t look sorry. 

 

If Phillip was reading it properly, he almost looked  _ amused.  _

 

“You have a wife.”

 

“I have a wife who’s  _ left  _ me. There’s no reason not to enjoy myself while she’s away. I don’t doubt that she’s got a suitor as well. Come for a drink with me at Top Hat. I’ll make no other promises.”

 

Phillip shook it off. No. He couldn’t. Top Hat was… notorious. Every tabloid knew it. “One man alone in a bar for men with… proclivities is fine. A pair? You and I would both be raked through the coals by the papers in the morning. Our reputations don’t need that.”

 

“Why, I never thought you were one to shy from criticism.”

 

“I’m not!” Phillip replied. His face felt hot, and he was sure that he looked thoroughly unbalanced. “Criticism is necessary. Being locked up and possibly executed for… sodomy... is not.”

 

Barnum rolled his eyes. “Yes. Fine. You’re not a rule breaker, I understand that. If the government’s rules apply, you’re not going to cross them.”

 

“I break rules.”

 

“When, exactly?”

Phillip bit the inside of his lip so hard that he drew blood. “I broke every single rule that’s been set for people like me by coming to work for you, don’t you understand that? This… whatever this is is  _ new.  _ I don’t- the risk is so high.”

 

“You know of your attractions. Surely you’ve-”

 

The  _ been with men before  _ is implied. “...no.” He’d never wanted to act on those desires before. They’d never felt… right… enough.

 

“Fuck.” Barnum swore, and ran a hair through his hair. “Jesus. I guess that makes sense.” 

 

“What?”

 

“Your hesitance.” He held up a hand, stopped Phillip from replying before he’d even had a chance to try. “Don’t. Look. Just… come home with me. Have a drink. I’m not locking you into anything. You say the word, nothing happens except the drink. Okay?”

 

“...Okay.” Phillip said, because it wasn’t as though there was any other choice. And he wanted to. He really wanted to. It was just… difficult. “Okay. I will.” 

 

“Good.” Barnum patted him on the cheek, grabbed his coat and whisked his way out of the room. “I’ll meet you outside!”

 

Fuck. 

 

What had he gotten himself into?


	7. Chapter 7

It felt like a bad idea.

 

It felt like a whole  _ life's worth  _ of bad ideas.

 

To have an attraction to a woman who wasn’t of his class was one thing - but to be attracted to a  _ man _ was entirely another.

 

He could be hanged for his thoughts.

 

And yet, he couldn’t stop. 

  
  


Barnum was waiting for him outside, sipping from a flask. He looked thoroughly self-assured, which didn’t do anything to help Phillip’s precarious state of mind. 

 

“Would you like some?” He asked, and held the flask out in one gloved hand.

The thought was tempting, but Phillip knew better. “Don’t try and ply me. I know your ways. I know I was far more intoxicated than you on the first night we met, and I know that mostly wasn’t my doing.”

 

Barnum narrowed his eyes and took the flask back. “Lubrication. Social lubrication, is all. We’re more likely to take risks when we’re intoxicated. I didn’t have malicious intent.”

 

“You weren’t trying to get me to sign my soul over to you?”

 

The older man shrugged and pocketed the flask. “You’re enjoying your new life, aren’t you? Does it really matter?”

 

Phillip probably have felt worse about that statement than he did. Unfortunately, Barnum was  _ right.  _ He’d been happier in the short while in the circus than he ever had been as a simple playwright.

 

The circus was raw. It had edge and excitement.

 

It allowed for taboos.

 

Conventional theatre did not.

 

“Shall we go?” Barnum asked, and offered his arm. “We’ll catch our deaths if we stay out here too long.” 

 

It was Phillip’s last chance to back out.

 

But he couldn’t.

 

In truth, he wanted to see how far the strange, new dynamic could be pushed. The thought of Barnum - of what he could do - it was exciting. 

 

He wanted to taste everything, to try everything. It was curiosity to an illicit degree.

 

“Oh, God - let’s.”

 

It felt a little like he was signing his soul over to the Devil, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  
  


Barnum’s loft was still as much of a hovel as it had been previously. It reeked of disuse - dust coated most of the flat surfaces, and the bucket that sat under one of the holes in the roof was nearly overflowing.

 

It didn’t look as though he’d been back there in quite some time.

 

Barnum knelt in front of the fire and set about lighting it. Although the tiny home was chilly, it quickly warmed from the roaring flames.

 

Phillip settled himself on the edge of the divan and pulled off his gloves, scarf and coat. It took him a few moments to find peace, his nerves jangling from the thought of what to come. He swallowed. “Why do you live like this?”

 

Barnum turned from the fire, seemingly taken aback by the question. His answer seemed to take him a moment. “To remember. Do you want a drink?”

 

He took a finger of whiskey, just to calm his nerves. It didn’t seem to help.

 

Barnum sat next to him, their knees just brushing together. “I know I said that I wasn’t going to force you into anything - but tell me, do I have a chance here?”

 

And then he put his hand on Phillip’s knee.

 

Phillip jumped, nearly shattering his glass in his wake. “Fuck.” He swore, “Look - just don’t - do that without a warning, okay? There’s over twenty years of Catholicism in my head telling me that this is a very bad idea.” 

 

Barnum chuckled under his breath. “I won’t. For the sake of my crockery, at least. You’ve - you’ve been with women, though, haven’t you?”

 

“Women are slightly different to men, Barnum.” Phillip snarled, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. 

 

“There’s more similarities than you might think, Phillip.” Barnum took his glass from him and placed it on the floor. He offered his hand and Phillip, with some trepidation, took it. “And call me Phineas. I’ll feel slightly less terrible about deflowering you if you at least use my first name.”

 

_ Deflowering?  _ “I’m not some blushing ingenue, Phineas.”

 

“Compared to me, you are.” 

 

That was it. “If you are going to patronise me I might as well leave.” He collected his scarf, coat and gloves and moved to stand, but was stopped by Phineas’ grip on his hand. “What.”

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

To hear such words from his mentor was a surprise. Phineas hardly found the time to apologise to anyone.

 

“I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to demean you - it’s just - you have so much to learn and it’s a very intoxicating thought, do you understand that?” There was a heat in Phineas’ eyes that hadn’t been there mere moments earlier. He rubbed a slow, teasing thumb over the inside of Phillip’s wrist. “Will you let me teach you?”

 

And Phillip, despite everything in him telling him to say no, nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that alcohol thing is true, by the way.
> 
> rewatch 'the other side' and take a look at the amount in the glasses and who's drinking the most
> 
> pretty sneaky huh


	8. Chapter 8

It was different, like this.

 

He wouldn’t draw a comparison to a woman, though, there were many. It wasn’t like either of them were some sort of ingenue, but it wasn’t as though Phineas was heavily bearded, either.

 

It was just…

 

Different.

 

Not unwanted, no, not at all unwanted.

 

Just.

 

Different.

 

“Oh, you are a peach, aren’t you?” Phineas pulled away, and grazed a thumb over his jaw. “Don’t you look magnificent like this? Just waiting for me? You’re beautiful, you know that?”

 

“Stop -” His face felt hot. It was only partially because of the kissing. He wanted more, but he didn’t know -

 

“Mmmm… I don’t think I shall.” Said he, and thumbed open the button on the collar of Phillip’s shirt, tracing gently over the warm skin underneath. “Gosh. You really are a sight for sore eyes, aren’t you?”

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Barnum.” 

 

“Well, that’s patently untrue.” Phineas spread out his hands in front of him, and looked down, eyes glittering in the faint light of the candle nearby. “Just look at you. All debauched - imagine if your reviewers could see you now.”

 

And somehow the idea had its appeal. Not the reviewers themselves, not really, but the shock they’d feel. The humiliation he’d get. The jibes, the sneers - It warmed his skin, made him hot. “I- I don’t think I want to imagine.”

 

“Sure you do.” Phineas replied, and undid the clasp on his belt. He was shirtless now, and Phillip hadn’t even seen it happen amongst the heat in his belly and the fog in his head and he -

 

“Oh God.” He cried out, and then said many other thoroughly un-Catholic things.

 

Everything was different for a bit, after that.

  
  


Parts of him ached. 

 

And it wasn’t a bad ache, not really, but he knew he’d be walking differently when he managed to drag himself from Phineas’ bed. He wasn’t sure if he should feel… bad… about the encounter.

 

It hadn’t  _ felt  _ bad.

 

Not really.

 

But society, and its mores, and  _ his  _ mores - they dictated that he should feel bad.

 

But he didn’t. 

 

“Morning.” Phineas said, cheerfully, and climbed back into bed with eggs and slices of hot buttered toast. He offered Phillip a plate. “Would you like some?”

 

“I don’t -”

 

“God isn’t going to smite you down for finding some pleasure, Phillip.” Phineas took the plate back and bit down into the slice of toast. “I’d be burned to ashes many times over if that were the case.”

 

“You do this… often?’

 

“Not as much since I was younger.”

 

“But your wife -”

 

“I was faithful to my wife, Phillip. But that doesn’t change this part of me. Some people find comfort with more than just members of the opposite sex. You know that, yes? Did our activities last night feel unnatural to you?” 

 

“No.” Phillip slumped down in the pillows. “They didn’t.”

 

“Then don’t let it worry you.” Phineas said. “Your virtue is safe.” 

 

Phillip groaned. “Phin, I’m far from virtuous.”

 

“Oh, I know that now.” He replied, and winked. “Do you want to show me just how unvirtuous you are?”

 

And yes, maybe his upbringing was telling him everything was a bad idea, but he ignored it. 

 

It felt like a start.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm striving for vague historical accuracy, but i know fuck all about us history so a lot of this is coming from the web. 
> 
> hit me up on the [ tumbs ](http://villainousfilmmaker.tumblr.com)


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